more about El Diablo."
"I can't wait."
A single set of footsteps skittered down the stairs. Seconds later, Jo burst into the foyer. "Oh! I didn't realize you were still here, Mary. We can walk home together."
"Wonderful." Mary glanced at Reese. "See? We'll be fine. Truly."
He merely raised an eyebrow. "How's Nate?"
"Sleeping," Jo answered. "Can't you make him stop drinking?"
"No."
"Just like that? No? Have you even tried?"
"Yes."
"I'm sure if you tried harder you could help him."
"Some things even I can't fix." He was staring at Mary when he said it. She hoped he was wrong.
"What's wrong with Nate that you can't fix?" Jo was like a dog with a bone most days.
Reese turned his gaze back to Jo. "I have no idea."
Jo scowled, grabbed Mary's hand, and marched them both out of the hotel. "Men," she muttered as soon as her feet hit the street.
Mary had to agree.
Chapter 3
Reese stepped onto the porch, rolled a cigarette with practiced fingers, and watched the two women walk home. They progressed past a few abandoned buildings and turned at the schoolhouse, only a stone's throw from the hotel.
Before she disappeared from sight, Mary looked back. When she saw him standing there, she hesitated, as if she'd wave or say good-bye, but her little friend just kept barreling around the corner and dragged Mary along with her.
Reese had seen women like Jo Clancy before. They thought they could save the world and every man in it. She'd have her hands full with Nate. The guy had been on a slow suicide mission since Reese had met him.
He put the cigarette in his mouth, cupping his hands to light it. Atlanta snorted in protest. He didn't like smoke. The horse would have been worthless in battle. Maybe that's why Reese liked him so damn much.
Taking a deep drag of the cigarette, Reese let the familiar gesture calm and soothe him as he thought back on his conversation with Mary.
Might any of his men have heard of, or met, El Diablo? Maybe Rico?
Nah. The Kid had left southern Texas when he was fourteen, and before that Reese had a feeling he'd been a pampered mama's boy, a Tejano whose father had been criollo —the Spanish aristocracy of Mexico. Therefore, Rico would have no cause to be acquainted with a low-down bandit. But if Rico came from the cream of Texas society, why had he gone to war when he was little more than a child?
Reese cursed beneath his breath. Why would he care? He'd learned not to get too close to his men. Because if you did and you lost them, madness wasn't far behind.
He tossed the cigarette to the ground; Atlanta pawed at it. Reese crushed the scarlet glow into dust with his boot and led the horse to the stable.
A short while later, he entered the rear door of the hotel. Clinking glass and the rumble of male voices drew him toward the remnants of the hotel's dining room. He'd planned to go in and discuss the job, but when he heard his name, he hesitated just long enough to make entering at that moment impossible.
"I say Reese is his last name," Jed insisted.
"And I say it's his first." That was Cash.
"So noted, hombres. We have gone over his name countless times. Right now we are discussing, once again, what he was before he became a capitan."
The five kept up a running wager on Reese's name and previous occupation. It was a harmless bit of fun and sometimes got downright amusing. Like now.
"He was a damn Georgia tobacco planter with a big house and a hundred servants. That's why he calls his horse Atlanta. He's still pissed at Sherman for burning the place down, and he doesn't want to forget to kill the bastard general the next time he sees him."
Not quite, Reese thought with a smirk for Jed's ingenuity.
"He had a horse farm where he raised the finest animals south of the Mason-Dixon," Cash said. "That's why he babies that horse of his enough to make me sick."
"I believe he was a preacher-man," Rico said. "Where else would he have gotten all those black clothes?"
"Nate's the
"I can't wait."
A single set of footsteps skittered down the stairs. Seconds later, Jo burst into the foyer. "Oh! I didn't realize you were still here, Mary. We can walk home together."
"Wonderful." Mary glanced at Reese. "See? We'll be fine. Truly."
He merely raised an eyebrow. "How's Nate?"
"Sleeping," Jo answered. "Can't you make him stop drinking?"
"No."
"Just like that? No? Have you even tried?"
"Yes."
"I'm sure if you tried harder you could help him."
"Some things even I can't fix." He was staring at Mary when he said it. She hoped he was wrong.
"What's wrong with Nate that you can't fix?" Jo was like a dog with a bone most days.
Reese turned his gaze back to Jo. "I have no idea."
Jo scowled, grabbed Mary's hand, and marched them both out of the hotel. "Men," she muttered as soon as her feet hit the street.
Mary had to agree.
Chapter 3
Reese stepped onto the porch, rolled a cigarette with practiced fingers, and watched the two women walk home. They progressed past a few abandoned buildings and turned at the schoolhouse, only a stone's throw from the hotel.
Before she disappeared from sight, Mary looked back. When she saw him standing there, she hesitated, as if she'd wave or say good-bye, but her little friend just kept barreling around the corner and dragged Mary along with her.
Reese had seen women like Jo Clancy before. They thought they could save the world and every man in it. She'd have her hands full with Nate. The guy had been on a slow suicide mission since Reese had met him.
He put the cigarette in his mouth, cupping his hands to light it. Atlanta snorted in protest. He didn't like smoke. The horse would have been worthless in battle. Maybe that's why Reese liked him so damn much.
Taking a deep drag of the cigarette, Reese let the familiar gesture calm and soothe him as he thought back on his conversation with Mary.
Might any of his men have heard of, or met, El Diablo? Maybe Rico?
Nah. The Kid had left southern Texas when he was fourteen, and before that Reese had a feeling he'd been a pampered mama's boy, a Tejano whose father had been criollo —the Spanish aristocracy of Mexico. Therefore, Rico would have no cause to be acquainted with a low-down bandit. But if Rico came from the cream of Texas society, why had he gone to war when he was little more than a child?
Reese cursed beneath his breath. Why would he care? He'd learned not to get too close to his men. Because if you did and you lost them, madness wasn't far behind.
He tossed the cigarette to the ground; Atlanta pawed at it. Reese crushed the scarlet glow into dust with his boot and led the horse to the stable.
A short while later, he entered the rear door of the hotel. Clinking glass and the rumble of male voices drew him toward the remnants of the hotel's dining room. He'd planned to go in and discuss the job, but when he heard his name, he hesitated just long enough to make entering at that moment impossible.
"I say Reese is his last name," Jed insisted.
"And I say it's his first." That was Cash.
"So noted, hombres. We have gone over his name countless times. Right now we are discussing, once again, what he was before he became a capitan."
The five kept up a running wager on Reese's name and previous occupation. It was a harmless bit of fun and sometimes got downright amusing. Like now.
"He was a damn Georgia tobacco planter with a big house and a hundred servants. That's why he calls his horse Atlanta. He's still pissed at Sherman for burning the place down, and he doesn't want to forget to kill the bastard general the next time he sees him."
Not quite, Reese thought with a smirk for Jed's ingenuity.
"He had a horse farm where he raised the finest animals south of the Mason-Dixon," Cash said. "That's why he babies that horse of his enough to make me sick."
"I believe he was a preacher-man," Rico said. "Where else would he have gotten all those black clothes?"
"Nate's the
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